The Perfect Warrior
by Pollux Unbound
Summary: For sure, so powerful a warrior no more shall be, nor ever was. This was Teresa, who exists now only in living memory of two other warriors. Irene's POV. This sucks, by the way.


Disclaimer : I do not own Claymore.

…

Between the earth and the sky, it was said that the strongest would appear but only once. At the very heart of things, she was the strongest that ever breathed on land. One should only try to discern her, not learning anything else in the end, except that no one else was like her nor would there ever be.

It was said that for decades following the creation of our kind, the organization had persisted in attempting to develop the perfect warrior, one who would stand firm when all threatened to fail, never to be vanquished. I had thought that I was the one and, more than that, I wasn't alone in thinking so. If anything, with all the atrocities attributed to people like me, I was praised, exalted, even glorified.

"This is rest-assured the most powerful technique. It has come to your hands. Many a warrior before you had tried to achieve that which we all came to know as unachievable only to perish, their lives unfulfilled. But here you are and your blade, proving us all wrong. Number Two is what you shall be known henceforth."

Number two, The Invincible One, Quicksword Wielder, Master of Speed; mere names which meant so much more to me than what they were good for. I only wished to live long enough to see my journey until the end and to gain another name, one which I secretly sought hard to gain. But seeking was not finding, and finding was not achieving.

Rosemary was something else. Though being entirely dependent on good fortune, she held on to being number one, the twilight of her career laying far ahead and unforeseen with distance. She was strong, elegant, and cold, as what had always marked a number one. I could only look upon her in wonder, marvel at her cold, cold heart but maybe not for long. Knowing that in a matter of months she would have to forfeit her title, I was ingratiated. With that knowledge, I hope my gratitude was worth something. If not, then nevertheless she had it.

"There is a mission for you." the man in black informed me. With that sort of smile on his face, he wasn't exactly making it clear when my continual success in missions would finally heave my rank one number higher-only that, someday, it will.

"Consider it done."

"And, oh, depending on the outcome and your performance itself, on this one, you may find your rank different at the end of the day."

I trusted my joy to last, and so endeavored to make it so by cutting to the smallest pieces the awakened one I was disposed to kill. Naturally, I didn't like how my promotion was hinted, but I understood completely why it was communicated in such a manner; because matters like that were always more of a question of whether than when. Yet I persevered.

…

And then _she _existed.

She didn't go by several names, nor did she possess any particular move to mark her by. In the behest of all things, she could've been called just about any name under the sun. At any rate, Teresa only had one. And I knew, knew from the start, that it was she who was going to bring us ruin, if not in a way I expected then in another.

It became apparent that finding out the real truth of the matter than the imagination of it would work better for me, hence I inquired, something I wished I never did. But as abrupt as the ascent of my rank, I was lodged, without explanation, to being Number Three. Of course, it was a step-down. Or perhaps, more accurately, a failure.

Her strength was, above all, not that of other mortals, and we were but mere mortals. You could include her in the equation, in any equation, but no answer would suffice. She was simply the best there was, the best there ever will be. And surely my hope perished all at once. Only that I would've yielded docilely, condescending to her who was once in a lifetime. Teresa, you existed, did you not?

…

"Rosemary is dead. I am assigning you to her unfinished missions, number two." I was told.

And who was I to ask for the specifics of this sudden change? And what did it matter when I was now closer to her? In title, but never in body.

…

Kill her, he told me, as if that yielded any sort of possibility. But possible or otherwise, the path was already neatly laid before me. Yes, it was probably not so impossible as I was once led to believe.

One thing was clear at this point; it was that, although I did not have at my disposal the means of finishing Teresa, someone else did. Priscilla was her name, and in her was a gloomy light. In knowing her, it occurred to me that her existence alone simplified all the weight the situation piled on us, besides its being the reason for my second demotion. But my mind was another matter. To kill Teresa was to have justice carried out, that much was established, while anything besides was an approaching calamity. I was going to die sooner than I hoped, because Teresa and Priscilla could so easily send the world stumbling headlong to its chasms. Hence slowly and unwillingly, I, together with numbers 4 & 5, submitted to the path of life, like all other innumerable forms of entities

She appeared before us with calmness and dignity so much to be envied. For our part, we tried to show ourselves deliberate and composed in every movement, even as we were losing heart at the last minute. With desperation, Noel, Sophia and I convinced one another in a mutual manner that we were less hopeless than we were in reality. Only she, Priscilla, could have gone on, or so we thought.

Upon reading the entirety of her opponent's extraordinary yet fragile nature, Teresa smote Priscilla as easily as one of our kind might a common Yoma, in such a fashion which ripped apart not only the latter's resolve, but also her spirit and, ultimately, her sanity. And the three of us who could only watch, with acceptance rather than despair, did nothing besides what was expected of us. In the end, so great a difference in strength decided everything, in the same irrevocable way that no effort of imagination could have gauged what she was.

In my mind's conclusion, she was the perfection that dared to breathe, therefore no one could repent that she lived. Her end, of which nothing much could be unraveled, envisaged the pinnacle on which anyone wished to mount. Thus, just like anything made to yield perfection, she had to surrender or otherwise cease to exist, thereby completing a cycle which simply sought to prove that perfection was not merely an aberration but altogether a separate reality consisted entirely of all imaginable, or unimaginable, impossibilities. On this score, Teresa had to die lest the world face a whole new reality.

In retrospect, I was thoroughly relieved I had been nothing like her. Yet somehow, it was always clear to me how she should have been remembered. Her strength, intelligence and resolve were confined within a different dimension, and for her to remain only in my and Clare's memory spoke frankly of the desolation of this world.

END


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